Bad Decisions Make Great Stories
by whathobertie
Summary: He likes making bad decisions. Life's more fun that way. Gen, Cal/Gillian, general. My contribution to the Lie To Me #PostSecretChallenge.
1. Main plot

**TITLE:** Bad Decisions Make Great Stories **  
GENRE:** General **  
CHARACTERS:** Cal, Emily, Gillian **  
PAIRING:** Gen, Cal/Gillian **  
RATING:** PG-13 **  
SPOILERS:** None **  
WORDS:** 2,200 **  
SUMMARY:** He likes making bad decisions. Life's more fun that way.  
 **A/N:** My contribution to the Lie To Me #PostSecretChallenge. The secret I chose was quite literally: "I like making bad decisions. Life's more fun that way."  
A tight hug to all the people who joined this little challenge and are helping to keep this fandom alive! The stories so far were nothing short of splendid!

* * *

 **This Is England  
'79**

Left or right, right or left.

The decision would decide his fate. The fate of a skinny 15-year-old who regularly had to fight his way through school, even though throwing punches only earned him laughter most of the time. Yet he remained a sly kid, his mouth bigger than it should be, considering his size and the kind of background he had. Nothing to be particularly proud or loud-mouthed about.

His mouth, however, was also what had gotten him in this situation. A few cussed words in his South London cockney was all that it took.

Now he was here running. Left or right, right or left. He turned left in the end, sprinting as fast as he could and feeling every muscle in his body scream with pain. He hated all kinds of sports in school. Coming in last never was fun and losing was just not his thing—despite it being his fate all too often. But he could feel that he was actually meant to be a winner. One day he would be.

"Oi, get that little fucker!"

He heard them turning the corner. Only 50 or so yards behind him. They had gone left as well, so maybe it was the wrong decision after all.

Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was the exact right thing to tell these featherbrained skinhead bullies off and take the left turn. Whatever would happen—he had stood his ground. He was running away, but it was only the physical expression of him being ahead of them. He loved the game; always had.

He couldn't suppress the widening grin on his face while he ran along the cobblestone streets lined with red-brick houses he called home. This was exciting, was all he could think.

* * *

 **This Is New  
'89**

It was the first year he did not visit her grave on her birthday. He had felt so angry the past couple of weeks that he had decided he would not go this year. These spells of anger would still come and go from time to time, but less frequently and with fading vehemence. He had grown up in a way.

Yet he was still her little boy in many others. He realized, that it was one of the worst decisions of his life, when he felt the sadness creep in. First just an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, then a longing accompanied by thoughts of her comforting him as a child. At one point, it all turned into guilt that pricked his eyes with the overwhelming sensation of tears. He hadn't cried in four years or so.

The back of his hands pressed firmly against his eyes did the trick. Just enough to not make Gareth notice right away, when he walked into their shared office, casually flopping down onto his chair.

"You're here?" he asked. "Thought you had taken the day off."

"Nah, I haven't." His voice still sounded awkwardly stifled.

"Good for you. Just heard that Baker's looking for somebody to take a case in the US. I'd say, your chance to get out of this fuckin' hole, eh?"

He walked into Baker's office a little later. Confidence in his stride and determination in the back of his head. He closed the door behind him and silently thanked his mum for still making him angry from time to time.

* * *

 **This Is Her  
** ' **93**

The result of not using a condom and trusting her abilities to take a pill once a day, combined with the love and hate they shared so passionately, was now kicking her little, chubby legs in his arms. How the hell does one even hold a baby?

She twisted in his arms like she didn't even want to be with him, while he just desperately looked around for help. Why would they let him in here alone—with a baby?

Nobody came. The sterile room was eerily empty and silent, apart from her gentle whining. He got a little angry despite his helplessness, because clearly there must be a protocol; a way things are done. Funny that he would have a thought like that of all the people. The guy who didn't like to follow the rules, whatever they were.

Another minute or so went by and her constant whimpering had brought him to a place of acceptance. He was here on his own—who knew what had happened to the rest of the world.

He looked down at her and for the first time he actually _saw_ her. The rosy cheeks with a single tear rolling down, the tiny fingers trying to grip the thin air, the big blue eyes staring back at him, silently asking him to be the one to protect her. Her whining had faded; everything was silent now.

She was utterly beautiful. Wow, yes, she was. His little girl.

What a great bad decision this had turned out to be. Everything would be different now.

* * *

 **This Is Him  
** ' **99**

He hated conferences. Outright _loathed_ them. There were no other words, even though he tried to find some, while he fought hard to not fall asleep during other people's lectures.

He didn't want to be here, but travelling around on some of his days and weekends off, attending mostly boring events like that were the only chances of promoting his science. Maybe find a prospective client; or even better: an investor. His job at the Pentagon was a steady paycheck and left him with plenty to do, but he had hated the restrictions, the tight corset of rules, and chains of command ever since starting it.

He dreamed of something else. Something that was entirely his.

Still dreaming, he climbed up the few stairs to the speaker's desk a little later. A short moment of clearing his throat, examining the audience with narrowed eyes—then he started, pictures that he had already used in his dissertation appearing on the big screen behind him.

He was about halfway in, when a curly-haired bloke in the third row raised his hand and didn't even bother to wait for Cal's permission to speak. "I'm sorry, but that's not science." His rude interruption was followed by a smug laugh.

Cal was bewildered for a moment. "Ah, yeah?"

"Yeah, it's something you made up to convince people who don't understand a thing about it to fill up your pockets with their cash. Several experimental and naturalistic studies did not find evidence in support of your proposed taxonomy of discrete facial expressions. You know that as well as I do."

Something in his head snapped. He could sense it and still not hold back. "Oi, you wanker! My science tells me that incompetence looks exactly like that expression on your face. Must be valid then." The audience snickered quietly.

But his opponent wouldn't let it go, either. "Right, I guess all you need to know about that man was in those three sentences."

Oh, Cal wouldn't want to miss such a pissing contest. It surely made him feel alive. So he continued (not with the actual lecture, though).

Well, that was until they escorted him right off the stage and out of the building. Four bulky man about twice his size. All that, while he was still trading insults with the guy who had dared to question his science.

 _Unacceptable_ , like the host said, as he tried to reclaim the stage and calm down the audience.

On the other hand, that's why Cal was probably the only one who left St. Louis with the contact details of a publishing house in his crinkled dress pants. He was the only one who was half-entertaining.

* * *

 **This Is It  
** ' **04**

He wondered where this decision would take them and how bad it really was. And then he smiled and opened the door to something entirely new. Entirely his. Entirely theirs.

* * *

 **This Is Washington  
** ' **11**

Their heavy glasses clinked together with a dull sound. Almost the right culmination for a day that couldn't leave their memories soon enough. Each of them took a sip from the 22-year old scotch and while she closed her eyes briefly, he just stared ahead.

Washington in front of them—with all its lies, corruptions, and questionable morale. With all they saw and yet sometimes didn't want to know.

"He'll pay for this mistake all his life," she concluded grimly in the darkness of his office. The safe harbor within the turbulences of this city.

"Yeah," he just agreed, as there was nothing else to say. A case like many others and yet like none before. He took another sip, then downed the rest in one big, unpleasant gulp.

"What's the worst decision you've ever made?" A question only she could ask.

He turned to her; half her face illuminated by Washington's lights, the other half in bleak darkness. "You," he said and just kept looking.

Her eyes narrowed. Disbelief—disgust—disappointment—something else. In that order.

She didn't say a word, just averted her eyes and went back to look at the city that stole the life from them. Murderers, cheaters, the ones without a conscience. Criminals, felons, those who willingly destroy lives. Case files on Claire, Jenkins, and Matheson. Him contaminating her pure soul.

"When I say _'you'_ , you also have to know that I like making bad decisions. Life's more fun that way."

She just rolled her eyes. He might explain later.

* * *

 **This Is Unacceptable  
** ' **13**

This case, ugh.

First, he doesn't get it right and then everybody leaves him looking like a fool. Thank you very much. Mental reminder to write some dismissals and sign them with pleasure.

He leaves the house of the suspect that isn't really a suspect because everybody just made him believe he is the suspect, so they could do something he would not approve of behind his back. The magic is happening somewhere else entirely. Never has _he_ been the one on the wretched end of the long con. (Not like this, anyway. That other time was different.)

His entire team working on this case is standing there. The welcoming committee for his walk of shame. They look everything from uncomfortable to embarrassed to fearful. Only Loker smiles smugly, that idiot.

Gillian is amongst them, kneading her hands with something that might be nervousness. He's walking over to her in such a straight and determined way, he can see the uptightness clench its clammy fingers around her delicate figure even from far away.

He has made a decision. One he won't be able to take back. On the doorstep just a few seconds ago, seeing them all standing there, he had chosen how he would handle this. In true Lightman fashion, nobody would ever guess.

One step, two steps, three, ten, twenty. No left or right, just straight ahead.

Lowered brows, lids tightened, lips pressed together. Probably a C or D on the intensity scale from A to E. Not much to misunderstand there, even if the coding of 4, 7 and 23 mean nothing to you.

When he is right in front of her, she is the only one he sees. No world around them. Just relentlessly her. _Sorry_ , she mouths without saying the actual word.

He nods, brows still lowered, says, "yeah, sorry," and puts his hands on both sides of her face to kiss her with the determined tenderness of the fool that they did not make of him. Just the fool he plain and simple is. He hears everybody else around them gasp. And then he walks away, before even taking a look at what's going on on Gillian's face.

He's all in now, letting the bad decision take over. It might have failed him here and there, but this is one of the good ones. He's sure of it, actually. He smiles to himself while walking away and the anger dissipates.

It's almost like back then, when he felt it for the first time.


	2. Post-credits scene

**This Is Gillian (After All)  
'13 (just a couple of minutes later, really)**

He's not even sure where he's going. His car is somewhere in a completely different direction, his home not even close, the office not an option. A bar surely must be on the way—a bar always is.

Left or right, right or left.

He can hear her turn the corner behind him. Her shoes with the (to him) unmistakable sound of clickety-click give her away before her angry breathing is upon his shoulder and her fingers clasp his upper arm.

When he turns around, he is expecting a prolongation of this anger, but he sees something else instead.

"I won't be one of your bad decisions," she says. Determination as well.

"I've always hoped you wouldn't be."

For a moment he thinks she is about to slap him. Or a good old kick in the balls maybe. He's deserved it for sure. Suddenly he isn't sure of anything he might have seen and when she comes closer he backs off almost instinctively. But she still manages to place her hands on both sides of his face anyway and kisses him with peppermint sweetness. The cool pungency sizzles underneath.

"Where are you going?" she wants to know just a couple of seconds later.

"I don't know."

"Sounds good. Can I come with you?"

She can. She will. This is exciting, is all he can think.

 **THE END**


End file.
